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Harriet listened to Peter’s footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming up the stairs. When Bunter had appeared in the doorway of the bedroom and announced the arrival of a telegram, Peter had clattered downstairs in enormous haste, like a boy released from school. But now here he was, treading heavily back to her. It must be bad news, she thought, and set down her hairbrush for a moment. How bad, I wonder?
“Rotten luck,” Peter said, flinging the telegram down on the bed. “Another bust-up at the Embassy. Yours truly has been dispatched to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I suppose they imagine I’m simply sitting at home with nothing to do?”
No one dead, no one injured or ruined. And yet… “When do you leave?” Harriet asked.
“That’s the worst of it,” Peter sighed, coming to stand beside her dressing table. “They need me in France tomorrow. Bunter is already packing.”
Harriet frowned. “I’m sorry, darling.” She calculated swiftly in her mind. The day after tomorrow, they were to have paid a visit to the Dowager at Duke’s Denver; now she would have to go alone, if at all. And three days after that… “You won’t be able to come to Shrewsbury, will you?”
“Not unless the ambassadors are more than usually cooperative,” said Peter. “I fear the worst. Three weeks, or a month. Perhaps they’ll chain me to the desk and I’ll have to be freed by force. Bunter can do it; you needn’t dirty your hands with another criminal action.”
Disappointment crept into Harriet’s heart like fog. The Dean had invited her to participate in Shrewsbury's series of lectures by visiting scholars, surely as much out of gratitude for her aid in solving last year’s mystery as out of any desire for her thoughts on the role of popular fiction in the intellectual life of Britain. Peter was to have accompanied her, for the first time since those frenzied, harrowing days. The fond image of herself and Peter in a punt, hand in hand, calmly journeying through Oxford as settled lovers, would have to be set aside.
“I’m terribly sorry, domina,” Peter continued. “I know we haven’t been to Oxford since that dreadful business with the college ghost, and—perhaps I’m getting soft in my old age. The thought of wandering through those hallowed halls arm in arm with you again…”
“That’s just how I feel myself, Peter. But it can’t be helped. I shall enjoy it, anyway.”
“And you’ll still look in on my mother, won’t you? She won’t have any bluestockings or frivolous undergraduates to cheer her lonely heart.”
“Of course I will,” said Harriet.
Peter kissed her. “Well, that’s that. I’ll go and see what Bunter’s managed to do so far.”
Harriet returned to her dressing-table, frowning into the mirror as she pinned up her hair. Peter’s words about his mother and the inhabitants of Shrewsbury had called forward an idea, looming out of the shadows of her disappointment. By the time she finished her toilette, it had become a positive conviction. She rang the bell for her maid.
“Johnson,” she said, when this personage appeared. “Could you bring me the telegraph pad off his lordship’s desk?”
****
TO HONORIA LUCASTA, DOWAGER DUCHESS OF DENVER
DUKE’S DENVER
PETER CALLED AWAY TO FRANCE STOP AM WITHOUT ACCOMPANIMENT TO SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT AT OXFORD AS RESULT STOP WOULD BE HONORED TO HAVE YOU AS GUEST IF NOTHING ELSE ON FOR YOU STOP
YOUR LOVING HARRIET
TO LADY PETER WIMSEY
LONDON
POOR PETER ALWAYS SACRIFICING SELF FOR GOOD OF COUNTRY STOP OF COURSE WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU AND COLLEGE ETC STOP VERY HONORED INDEED AND ALL MY VERY BEST LOVE TO YOU BOTH STOP MOTHER
****
“What a delightful little car this is!” exclaimed the Dowager Duchess. “And how clever of you to be so good at driving. It seems like such a whirlwind, but I should be so nervous about running into people and stopping in time so as not to hit cows and all that.”
Harriet glanced over at her mother-in-law. As ever, she was neatly, impeccably dressed, with a scarf tied firmly around her hat to keep it from blowing off. Her expression was that of a child being taken on an outing by a relation it sees very rarely, a giddy excitement mixed with uncertainty.
“To be perfectly honest, I’m always a bit worried about running into cows myself,” said Harriet. “But I’ve never encountered any on the way to Oxford. Just idiotic undergraduates on bicycles who can’t keep to the side of the road.”
“I shall keep a good look-out,” said the Dowager Duchess firmly. They passed into silence, and Harriet was free to linger on the reminiscences that flooded her mind as she traversed this road. The travels “back to school” of her undergraduate days, fondly recalled with a touch of sorrow for being so long ago and far away. The Gaudy, and all that followed, remembered with gratitude and a shudder. And sweetest and most precious to contemplate, her drive to London after everything had been settled with Peter. She glanced at her mother-in-law again, wondering what this road said to her. Nothing, most probably; and yet, she was intently studying the trees and houses as they passed. Harriet turned her eyes back to the road, with a firm resolution to think only about her driving, lest they encounter any of those worrisome cows or foolish cyclists.
When they arrived at Shrewsbury, they were greeted by the Dean herself. “Harriet, darling!” she exclaimed. “How lovely to see you! I’m so glad you accepted our invitation. Oh, and of course—how lovely to see you again…” she lapsed into silence, extended her hand slightly, seemed to think better of it, and bobbed her head.
“Yes, this is Peter’s mother, Lady Honoria Lucasta, the Dowager Duchess of Denver,” said Harriet. “I believe you met her at the wedding.” She felt a faint, irrational guilt. Was she really so used to Peter’s milieu now that she had forgotten not everyone was on speaking terms with duchesses?
The Duchess, fortunately, saved the situation by reaching for the dean’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “A pleasure to see you again as well,” she said. “And what a beautiful college you have! You must be so proud—of course there are others doing all kinds of great deeds for learning, I’m sure—but to be the Dean of it all! Leading Reason to the Throne of Truth, as Samuel Johnson said. At least, I think that’s what he said, although you can never be quite sure with poets. They do go on so. You aren’t a poet, are you?”
The Dean laughed, and shook her head. “I’ve been spared that fate. Is Peter with you?” She turned to Harriet again.
“No, he’s been called away to the Embassy in Paris,” said Harriet, bracing for the Dean’s disappointment.
“What a shame!” the Dean exclaimed. “It would have been such a treat to see him again. Peter is rather a pet here,” she said a bit more loudly, including the Duchess in her remarks again. “When it comes to men, we’re more used to dried-up old scholars and lovesick drunken undergraduates. It’s a rare treat to have a man like Peter around.”
“Oh, I can well believe it,” said the Duchess, with enthusiasm. “Of course, you have to make allowances for a mother’s feelings, but really he is indisputably charming, isn’t he?”
The Dean laughed again, and slipped her arm into Harriet’s. “You lucky thing! What a family you’ve married into! I shall begin being jealous, if I don’t take care.”
The Dean’s voice was light as she said it, but Harriet felt another pang of guilt. Had she wanted to bring Peter to Oxford merely to flaunt him? To receive congratulations on what a gossip-minded former classmate called “a successful conquest”? Self protested, but the ready substitution of the Duchess for Peter seemed an indisputable piece of evidence that she had wanted to display her good fortune somehow.
They passed more members of the college as they walked, receiving waves, bows, and shouts of greeting from Miss de Vine, Miss Lydgate, and the short, round-faced new Research Fellow whose name escaped her. Donaldson? Walker? Something very straightforward, at any rate. Was Harriet imagining it, or were they hailing her with slightly less enthusiasm than they might have done had she been by herself? How absurd to have brought the Duchess, like wearing a diamond necklace to sit an exam. How much simpler to have simply been by oneself, like old times. Old times can never come back, Harriet reminded herself sternly. You are encumbered now, whether you like it or not—and face facts, my girl, you like it extremely. But here at Shrewsbury, with the past haunting every corner, how one longed for an hour of the old, worse, solitary times!
****
The lecture was due to start at four. Harriet and the Dowager Duchess had lunched together at a smart little Oxford restaurant that Harriet had never entered before. The Duchess had expressed a desire to see the river, so Harriet had taken her there, her feet treading the paths automatically while her mind revolved around the questions and worries of the morning. Now they were in Harriet’s room, dressing. The Duchess had her own room, of course, but had insisted on dressing with Harriet— “it’s ever so much more companionable to dress together for an event, isn’t it? Like one’s first ball.” Harriet, with no first balls in her past experience, wondered if the Duchess simply wanted to chat, and acquiesced, a little reluctantly.
However, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as Harriet feared. The Duchess took one corner of the room, while Harriet took the other, and refrained from chatter until Harriet had climbed into her dress. “Shall I do you up, my dear?” the Duchess asked. “How proper you look! Like an engraving of Wisdom in a frontispiece. Exactly the right thing for a lecture.”
Harriet, who was wearing a plain navy dress with white piping, smiled to herself and accepted the compliment. She allowed the duchess to help her into her academic gown as well, straightening the sleeves and brushing minute specks of dust off the fabric.
“Was it as lovely as it seems?” the Duchess asked. “To be an undergraduate here, I mean. I know you all worked very hard, but one can’t help but imagine all the delightful times too, boating parties and hearing Evensong and arguing about verbs in Milton, or Shakespeare, or somebody. And working so hard at one’s own work! I’ve never really believed in the biblical curse on work, have you? There are so many things that it is quite satisfying to do.”
Harriet set down the pin she had been about to place in her hair and turned to face her mother-in-law. The Duchess’ face wore a smile, but her eyes were pensive, full of longing. What a goose I’ve been, Harriet thought suddenly. Imagining I’ve been dangling her in front of my unmarried friends, while all the while it's been the other way around. What it must be for a woman of her intelligence, to be in this place that she never had any hope of reaching… She walked over and took the Duchess’ hands in hers.
“It was a lot of work,” she said frankly. “But I loved it all. The curse of work is having to do something you’re not suited for, or having to grind yourself into the ground for a measly little income—work itself is delightful.”
The Duchess smiled encouragingly.
“I often wish I could do it again,” Harriet continued boldly, hoping she was judging the situation aright. “And when I feel like that, I go into the library and get hold of whatever I can find to read that will be a real job. Anyone can do that, if they have the right temperament and the real love for the words. It’s not quite the same, but it’s better than simply sitting around and wishing for the past.”
The words hung in the air for a moment. Then the Duchess threw her arms around Harriet and squeezed, imperiling the academic neatness of the gown. “You are a darling,” she said. “If you and Peter have any daughters, you must send them here. Of course it’s probably terribly old-fashioned and impolite to mention your future children…”
“What else are mothers for?” Harriet said, smiling and shaking her sleeves back in order. “They’re expecting us in twenty minutes. Are you ready?”
****
It wasn’t until Harriet was standing at the lectern in the hall, turning to the first page of her notes, that she realized she had spent almost no time that day thinking about the subject of her lecture. Oh well, she thought, without much anxiety. They’ll just have to take what I can give them. Most of the undergraduates will be fidgeting or sleeping or engaged in their private thoughts, anyway.
The Dean walked to the front of the room, and a silence fell over the assembled crowd. She gave a brief, flattering biography of Harriet for the benefit of the students, and then stepped away.
Harriet looked out over the room. Her eyes lit upon an earnest undergraduate with an untidy bob, notebook poised to catch whatever wisdom Harriet might drop; upon Miss de Vine, arms folded and face expectant; upon the Duchess, beaming with pride. Seeing them all, Harriet felt complete satisfaction. I’ve done it, she thought. I’ve done something worthwhile. They’ll all listen to me, and they’ll hear what I’ve done. She knew at once that no Harriet of the past could have stood at the front of this room; only herself as she was at that moment was prepared to meet what lay before her.
“My task today is to outline the role of the popular novel in the life of our nation,” she began. “It may seem like an impossible task to many of you—and yet I do believe we as scholars have a responsibility to take seriously what the general public is reading, and see what use, if any, it may be to their moral and intellectual development.” She looked down at her notes to see what came next. For the first time all day, she was purely and simply having fun.
After the lecture, they dined in college with the other Fellows. Harriet's attention was completely captured by Miss de Vine, who had disagreed with one of Harriet's arguments. Glancing over at the Duchess during a pause in the debate, Harriet saw her gazing at the high ceilings and dark paneled walls. Perhaps I should try to bring her into the discussion, she wondered.
"It's all very well to talk about the good kind of popular fiction," Miss de Vine said, beginning her point of attack again. "But with such innumerable volumes of trash being printed every year..."
Harriet bought herself back to the debate with difficulty. Of course the Duchess could handle her own social affairs. Just because Harriet had brought her into this unfamiliar circle did not mean she needed her hand held. "I don't mean to say all popular fiction is well crafted," she retorted. "But works with no appeal don't sell thousands of copies. It's that appeal I'm interested in, and what it means."
They continued the conversation all through dinner, only stopping when Miss de Vine excused herself from the party forming to retire to the Senior Common Room. "I have sadly neglected my work to join you all," she said. "But it has been a pleasure, Harriet. I wish you a very pleasant rest of your time here. And please give my love to Peter."
"I will," Harriet promised.
In the Senior Common Room, after the usual chatter about exams and student foibles, the thread of Harriet's lecture was taken up again. Was reading truly necessary for all classes, even those who would never "improve their minds" or enjoy anything more strenuous than a detective novel? It was not at all surprising that the Senior Common Room would immediately begin a heated intellectual discussion, or pull apart Harriet's own argument in front of her very nose; such things were to be expected from a gathering of Shrewsbury Fellows. What was surprising was the lively way in which the Duchess jumped into the fray, not defending Harriet's arguments on the grounds of her feelings for Harriet (as Harriet at first feared), but simply speaking from her own experience and attending to the facts as she saw them. When the Duchess dismissed one of Miss Lydgate's arguments by saying, "I hope I am not being too shockingly rude, but I do think you are rather missing the point," Harriet ardently wished Peter could have been there to see it.
"I do hope you will come back again soon," the Dean said, when the party finally broke up around midnight. "Both of you," she said. "We should be delighted to have you at any time, Duchess."
The Duchess swooped in and kissed the Dean on both cheeks. "It would be my pleasure."
****
"What on earth did my mother get up to at Shrewsbury?" Peter demanded at the breakfast table, a few weeks later (the Embassy having disgorged him rather sooner than expected). "She's written me to ask for the loan of some of my books, to further her education, she says. There's an itemized list. Is being a bluestocking an infectious disease?"
"She ought to have been educated like I was," Harriet said, neatly sidestepping this blather. "It's a shame there wasn't Shrewsbury in her day. You ought to have seen her in the S.C.R., going toe to toe with Miss Lydgate over the intellectual life of the working classes."
"Damn and blast the Foreign Office," Peter said. "What a moment to have missed. We shall have to take her back at the very next opportunity." He handed Harriet a letter. "She's written to you, too. I wonder what parts of your personal library she's wishing for."
Harriet opened the letter.
My dearest Harriet,
I cannot thank you enough for bringing me to Oxford and letting me experience your delightful college with you. I have taken your excellent suggestion and am working very hard at whatever I can lay hands on. Lately, I am forging my way through Aurora Leigh, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. A very full poem, with much to think about and much to uncover—perhaps a topic for conversation on your next visit to Duke's Denver? I was surprised and delighted to find these lines in the middle of all that striving and dying and dramatic speechifying:
Get leave to work
In this world—'tis the best you get at all;
For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts
Than men in benediction.
That says it all, doesn't it, my dear? I hope your own work is going well. Love to Peter, and make sure he sends those books.
Your loving mother,
Honoria Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Denver